


This Also Pleases Rehtt (Och Aye)

by festivalofpudding (berreh)



Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Cerulean Orbs, M/M, Purple Prose, Rehtt No, Romance Novel, if it's no scottish it's crap, och aye
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 19:45:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13747965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berreh/pseuds/festivalofpudding
Summary: in celebration of the 1-year anniversary of@rehttno, please enjoy this fine quality historical romantic literature gifted to us by the queen himself.





	This Also Pleases Rehtt (Och Aye)

_greetings degenerehtts,_

_please enjoy this fine quality erotic literature as my gift 2 u. for this piece i have moved away from[the erotic fantasy genre](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11314923) and into painstakingly accurate and stunningly crafted historical fiction. i know u will enjoy the results. my bff link certainly did, if the color of his face when he found it in his mailbox was any indication. so sit back, turn down the lights, open a bag of mcvitie's, and indulge urself in this sensual historical masterpiece. (it is hard to get crumbs out of ur phone tho so be careful)_

_-[rehtt](https://rehttno.tumblr.com/)_

 

 **This Also Pleases Rehtt (Och Aye)**  
_a historically sexy story by rehtt_

It was a beautiful morning in the Scottish Highlands when I, Rehtt McLerflan, laird of Clan McLerflan, awakened in my richly appointed yet ruggedly masculine bedchamber. Stretching languorously beneath the many furs lining my sumptuous bed, I arose and sauntered over to my full-length silver mirror to prepare myself for the coming day. First, I combed my luxurious flaxen hair until it spilled in gleaming locks over my bare shoulders. Next, I groomed my plush tawny beard until it was velvet-smooth, pausing to trim a few stray hairs which threatened to impede the view of my supple lips. As I did so I could not help but appreciate how the morning light turned my uniquely colored eyes a comely shade of azure-kissed gray, like the polished blade of a fine sword, or like two really pretty rocks.

Outside my window a cold drizzle fell from a leaden sky (as I said, it was a beautiful morning in the Scottish Highlands), and if I were a lesser man I might have shivered as I dressed myself beside the fire: a white linen shirt whose thin fabric did little to conceal my naturally lean and svelte upper body, and a woolen kilt in the ancient McLerflan tartan whose folds hung just below the knee in a manner perfectly accentuating my long and shapely calves. As I sat down to fasten my boots, I found myself gazing out into the misty morning. I had awakened with a strange feeling that this day held something special in store for me, though what that something might be I did not know. My years as laird had been peaceful and prosperous thus far, due to my natural charisma and talent for brand management; and yet despite my perfect happiness, there remained a part of me that longed to perform great deeds of sexy bravery as my ancestors had done before me. I yearned for a new adventure. I could not have known it then, but a new adventure was about to fall right into my sporran.

When I was suitably attired and groomed I went downstairs to my great hall, where my servants had prepared my daily breakfast of various roasted meats and locally produced artisanal cheeses. As I finished my meal, three of my most trusted captains entered the hall and gathered around the table. They declined my gracious offer of leftover cheese, so I was obliged to eat it myself whilst they delivered their morning report. But they had not come to discuss administrative matters, for on this particular morning they brought news of far greater importance.

“Laird Rehtt,” said Sir Chase. “We have received a disturbing message from our spy at the English court.”

“Ach, the English! What nefarious deeds be they up to now?”

“It be grave indeed,” said Sir Kevin. “There is to be an alliance between an English nobleman and our most hated enemy clan.”

“Aye, my laird, tis true,” said Sir Micah. “As ye well ken, the old laird keeps many concubines for his amusement. This Englishman is sending one of his bastard offspring to become the latest paramour.”

“Surely they mean to join forces against us!” cried Sir Kevin.

“Aye!” agreed Sir Chase. “I advise swift action, my laird. Let us send warriors at once and destroy our enemy in battle!”

The others agreed with enthusiasm, but I merely stroked my voluptuous amber beard in thought, for I had a cunning plan.

“Nay,” said I, “For I have a cunning plan. Sir Micah, has the English party set out for Scotland?”

“Aye, my laird, it has.”

“Excellent. Sir Kevin: send scouts to find them. Sir Chase: gather our best fighting men. There shall be nae alliance, for we shall see that this bonny gift never reaches its destination. Instead we shall fetch a handsome price for its return, and the English shall ken well that it be unwise to conspire with the enemies of Clan McLerflan.”

“Och, aye!” cried Sir Micah. “Think of the ransom for a nobleman’s daughter!”

“Not to mention the embarrassment to our enemy,” added Sir Chase. “Ye are truly a master of strategy, Laird Rehtt, in addition to being tall, striking, adept at all physical activities, and an excellent dancer.”

I nodded in humble and modest acknowledgement of his true statement. I was just about to consume the last bit of cheese, impatient to begin preparations, when suddenly I paused.

“But wait! My magnificent plan has so excited me that I forgot the most important detail. Which Englishman has made this bargain? Whose bastard shall soon be my hostage?”

“Twas the Baron of Lincoln, my laird,” said Sir Chase. “The evil Lord Neale!”

* * *

When word arrived that the English party approached our lands, I and my band of warriors set out under cover of darkness to intercept them. My instinctual catlike stealthiness guided us through the rugged Highlands with ease, and we soon located the intruders in a mountain pass near the sacred waters of Loch McLerflan. Their number was small, and I kent well that victory would be mine. In the light of the full moon I drew my enormous sword, and with a virile cry of leonine ferocity I led my warriors as we charged down the hillside, my shirt open just enough to display my manly decolletage, my xanthous tresses streaming majestically behind me, my kilt flashing hints of creamy white thigh as I ran.

The fighting was truly fierce and deadly, but the English garrison was no match for me and my Scotland squad. Soon the campsite was super gross with dead guys and guts and stuff, and the victorious McLerflan fighters revelled in our triumph by thrusting our long rigid swords into the air while screaming in slow motion like in Braveheart except way more awesome. However, barely had I got in two or three properly savage slow-motion roars of bloodlust when I was informed that the object of our pursuit had been apprehended.

Our prisoner was the only survivor, captured while attempting escape and recognized by a fine blue velvet traveling cloak bearing the crest of Lincoln. As soon as I finished my slow-motion screaming I sheathed my sword and strode in an aggressive manner across the battlefield to claim my prize. But when I pulled her to her feet I was taken aback — for she was taller than any woman I knew, and quite muscular (even for a Scottish lass). The body trembling against mine was all hard lines and sharp angles, wide of shoulder, narrow of hip. Perplexed, I threw back the cloak hood and peered into her face. A pair of luminous sapphire orbs gazed back at me, framed by raven locks cut far too short for a maiden. The nobleman’s daughter we had kidnapped was no daughter at all!

My captive quivered in my arms, overwhelmed by my fierce intimidating presence. At last he dared speak: “Who are you?”

I growled at him through my beard, which remained sumptuously soft despite being covered in blood and dirt and stuff. “Who I am matters not. What matters is who _ye_ are.”

He said nothing, his lustrous mazarine globes glistening up at me behind swiftly blinking ebony lashes. He licked his curvaceous lips to calm himself, but when I squeezed his firm triceps in a menacing fashion he gasped and then exclaimed, “I am Charles FitzNeale, son of Baron Neale of Lincoln. You have no right to accost me! I am the guest of—”

“Silence! I ken well enough who ye are. Ye were destined for my enemy’s bed, but now ye be the prisoner and hostage of Clan McLerflan. When the time is right I shall fetch a handsome price for your return. Until then... _ye are mine_.”

His fair bosom heaved and he swooned into my arms, fainted dead away.

Sir Kevin approached. “Is she injured, Laird Rehtt?—but och! It is no she!”

“Aye. The lass is a lad. And a fair sturdy one at that.”

With nary effort at all I lifted FitzNeale into my arms to carry him from the field. As his lean body settled against my own, his cloak fell back to reveal a jawline both soft and strong, a long and sinuous neck, and collarbones that would slice bread. _Nay, he be no mere lad,_ I thought, grateful I was wearing a nice loose kilt.

We took the English horses and rode back to McLerflan lands. I carried my captive unconscious before me on my powerful steed, his pert bottom nestled between my muscular thighs and his head cradled against my bared chest. With my blood still up from the battle it was impossible not to notice his remarkable beauty, and how naturally he fit in my embrace, and how his hair smelled really good like flowers or something. The proximity of our bodies and the rhythm of our gallop did not help my situation, but just as I was endeavoring to think of cold water and elderly relatives, FitzNeale suddenly gasped and started awake.

“Release me at once!” he cried. “How dare you lay your hands upon me, you brigand!”

“I’ll do more than that if ye dinnae keep quiet,” I snarled.

But keeping quiet, as I was soon to ken, was not in Charles FitzNeale’s nature.

“You will never get away with this,” he warned. “Never! My father is a very powerful man. He will not rest until I am returned.”

“Aye, that I’m counting on.”

“He will pay no ransom either!”

“Dinnae be so sure. I thought to capture a bonny lass, but a bonny lad will do just as well.”

“I am no lad! I am as much a man as you yourself!”

In his ear I said: “Are ye sure about that?”

He spluttered with indignation and struggled in my grasp, endeavoring to leap from the horse, but I held him fast with my exceptionally long and svelte thighs.

“Are ye mad? Ye’ll be kilt!”

“I would rather die than be abducted by a villain like you! Unhand me, you filthy Scottish brute!”

“I am nae filthy! Aye well, I am right now, but look at this hair! Nae brute has hair so silken and voluminous! Can ye no smell my conditioner?”

“It does smell rather nice,” said FitzNeale. “Far too nice for a savage like you! You are nothing but a lawless ruffian and I shall escape you if it is the last thing I do! Let me go, let me go!”

“Whisht!!” I roared. “Mayhap I should give ye over after all — ye might kill the auld laird with your chattering!”

He continued to thrash about, and the wriggling of his shapely rump betwixt my thighs threatened to turn my vexation with him into a much more pressing problem. Thankfully at that moment the ramparts of Castle McLerflan came into view, and we rode across the drawbridge to the cheers of my servants awaiting us within.

“Ye have returned, Laird Rehtt!” cried my faithful groundsman John, holding my horse as I dismounted. “We knew ye would be victorious, as ye always are!”

“Aye indeed,” said I. Roughly I pulled FitzNeale down and added, “And I have no returned empty handed!”

“A prisoner! Shall I open the dungeon?”

At this FitzNeale shrank back in alarm, but I shook my head. “Nay, this be no ordinary prisoner. He is my hostage, and I mean to keep an eye on him myself. Tell Ellie to lay a pallet on the floor of my bedchamber.”

“I will not sleep on your floor like a servant!” FitzNeale cried. “How dare you—”

“Aye well, it appears he would prefer the dungeon. Go and—”

“No!” His exquisite cerulean spheres glittered with vexation, but he had no choice but to acquiesce. He was quite charming when he seethed: fists clenched and shoulders squared, throat flushed with repressed emotion and his eyebrows drawn together in a cute little squiggle. He had already proven braver than I anticipated — perhaps the time had come to show him who was laird around here.

“Bind the prisoner’s hands and put him in my chamber. Then go wake Tessie and tell her to heat water. I must bathe before I retire.”

“It is against the rules of chivalry to bind a prisoner of noble blood!” FitzNeale protested. “I demand that you leave my hands free!”

“Aye, alright, do ye wish to bathe me then?” I asked.

Fuming, he shoved his wrists out to the guards and was led away.

After a quick midnight snack of various meats and cheeses, I retired to my bedchamber to bathe. FitzNeale sat cross-legged on his pallet in the corner, his hands bound before him, and glared daggers at me while I divested myself of my filthy clothing. When I was gloriously nude I sauntered over to my mirror to detangle my hair, admiring the way the firelight danced across my long and sinuous limbs, my perfect tummy, and my diminutive yet not at all inadequate backside.

“Must you parade around like that?” he snapped.

“Nudity is man’s natural state. I apologize if my naked body frightens ye with its raw masculinity. Shall I bind your eyes as well as your hands?”

He fumed as I gleefully slipped into the bath and began scrubbing myself from head to ankles (not my feet of course, who washes their feet??) in the steamy water. His wrath grew tinged with envy as he watched me, for though he had not been in the fight, he was hot and dusty from the journey. I fully intended to let him bathe and change into clean clothing, but not until he learned some manners. I was laird of this castle, and he was but a prisoner — a beguiling raven-haired prisoner with perfect eyebrows and shoulders that would tempt a saint, but a prisoner nonetheless! But as I carefully toweled myself dry and applied various moisturizing lotions, I saw an unmistakable flash of desire in those incandescent azure spheres. I prepared to taunt him for it, but to my chagrin I felt a warm flush of pleasure flood through me. Swiftly regaining my composure, I donned a nightshirt and a frown and came over to examine his bonds before I retired.

I was aghast to find the rope had been tied far too tight. He flinched when I approached, but he did not struggle as I loosened the knots and tied new ones that were less cruel but just as difficult to escape.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

“I cannae get a ransom for ye if ye’ve got nae hands, can I?”

He scowled. “I’m surprised you deigned to do it yourself. Why didn’t you call one of your henchmen?”

“I can tie my ain knots. As laird it is my duty to be prepared for all situations. I will have ye ken I was the best knot tier in my End Times Preparation class.”

His wrists were bruised, but when I tried to examine them he recoiled from me and snapped, “Do not touch me! Leave me alone!”

“Suit yourself,” I said. I left him to sulk in his corner and meandered over to my large and opulent fur-strewn bed next to the warm crackling fire. FitzNeale watched me in some dismay, already shivering with nothing but his traveling cloak and a thin blanket between him and the stone floor.

“You may as well have thrown me in the dungeon after all, leaving me in the corner like a dog while you preen in your fine bed.”

I waggled my perfectly sculpted eyebrows at him. “Are ye asking to join me then?”

“I am not!” he shouted. “You callous, arrogant, ill bred, freakishly lanky—”

“Aye well, tis your loss,” I shrugged. “Good night, then.” And with that I blew out the candle and settled comfortably into my many decorative throw pillows for a good night’s sleep.

* * *

Sometime later I awakened to a soft scraping noise. I opened my eyes to see FitzNeale’s cloak lying empty in a pool of blue velvet on the blanket in the corner. Crouched in his shirt and breeches nearby, he was attempting to pick the lock on the bedchamber door. Using my innate feline agility I crept silently out of bed and surreptitiously approached him, when suddenly he spun and brandished his lockpick — the sgian dubh from my boot, which I had forgotten to hide. This he now swung at me, intent upon slicing open my throat.

Luckily my preternaturally quick reflexes went into action and I seized his arm at the last second — the blade clattered away as we tumbled to the floor, locked in a fearsome struggle. Over and over we rolled, grappling with each other  in a brutal fight for dominance. He was a formidable wrestler and our clash was violent and arduous, but at last I managed to subdue him by turning him over and lying with my full weight atop his body in the manner of a deceased person. Such a brilliant move he could not overcome, and he lay beneath me snarling with fury.

“Let me go!” he cried. “I will kill you, you cursed Scot!”

“I think no. Tis I who have the upper hand. How did ye get free of your bonds? I have ne’er met anyone who could escape my knots.”

“If you tie them again I shall escape them again,” he puffed. “You shall be forced to kill me.”

“Ach, dinnae be so dramatic. Ye be a hostage, no a true prisoner. Your father or the auld laird will pay the ransom and then ye shall be set free.”

“Free to become someone else’s prisoner! I would rather die!”

At this he began to fight anew, and I was forced to shove him forcefully to the floor and hold him down without mercy, pinioning his arms above his head.

“Nay, dinnae struggle so,” I said. “I have nae wish to damage ye.”

In the firelight his glistening cobalt rondures sparkled up at me like bewitching jewels, but as we lay there their luster began to kindle with a different kind of flame. Huskily he said, “You have already done more damage than you know, Laird Rehtt McLerflan. I think I shall never be free of you.”

His nubile and impressively toned body pressed beneath mine caused my own desire for him — too wild and savage to remain controlled any longer — to spring into sudden urgent tumescence beneath my linen nightshirt. Though his own firm manhood instantly responded in kind, his eyes grew wide with fear.

“No! You must not touch me in that manner!”

“Why no? I desire ye, and ye desire me, I can tell. Unless in addition to attempted murder ye be also smuggling a stolen parsnip in yer breeches.”

His buxom cheeks turned crimson. Biting his lip, he fluttered his midnight lashes and said breathily, “I… I do desire you, though it shames me to say it. You are unlike any man I have ever known. Though you are a Scotsman and my bitter enemy and your breath kind of smells like beans, I desire you more than I have ever desired any person. But alas, I cannot… for you see, I...” He turned his head away in dismay. “I am a virgin. I have never known the touch of another.”

“But ye were to be the concubine of—”

“By no choice of mine! I had no say in the matter. I planned to escape the first chance I could, even if it meant my death.  I will no longer be the pawn of others! I would have escaped if you had not taken me first. It would surely have meant my death in this wretched wilderness you call a country, but at least it would have been my own choice!”

Aye, he had a fine spirit underneath all that fidgeting and blinking. For the first time I kent well that in addition to being clever and brave and blessed with breathtaking clavicles, he also had true strength and a fire in his heart that matched my own — a fire that only intensified the similar flame in my scantily clad nether regions. Overwhelmed by the sheer force of my ardour, I pulled him against me in a passionate embrace, holding him fast despite his struggles.

In terror he cried out: “You would not ravish me?!”

At this I drew back in alarm. “Nay! Romance novel heroes forcing themselves upon captive virgins and thus presenting lack of consent as a romantic ideal is a harmful trope that cultivates unhealthy definitions of sexuality in young readers. I wouldnae think of contributing to such a problematic cultural narrative.”

His obsidian lashes fluttered over his twin ultramarine globes as his flawlessly furry bosom heaved breathlessly in my arms. “Do you truly mean that?”

“Aye, Charles, that I do. For I mean to deflower ye in an aggressive and merciless fashion, yet only after obtaining your full consent.”

“Oh, Laird McLerflan! That is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me. You are truly a noble savage.”

I smothered his luscious mouth with my sumptuous bearded kiss until he squirmed with longing beneath me, overcome by our rising passion.

“Call me Rehtt,” I said.

“Rehtt! Rehtt! Be gentle with me! Or don’t, I kinda think I like it rough.”

His turgid length was now as rigid and throbbing as my own swollen virility, and his gentian orbs had grown heavy with carnal lust. Smoothly I rose to my feet and swept him up into my arms as if he weighed nothing at all because in this story I have the spine of a 16-year-old gymnast, and gracefully I carried him to the bed and placed him in an empty spot amongst the many decorative pillows. I then removed my nightshirt, and at the sight of my copious arousal Charles bit his lip in maiden bashfulness.

“Oh Laird Rehtt,” he breathed. “I see it is true what they say about tall men.”

He blushed as I tenderly yet assertively removed his shirt and breeches, unsheathing a weapon which was more than worthy to duel with my own. Smoothly I slid beneath the plush furs and stretched out atop his eagerly waiting body.

“Aye,” I growled in husky tones against his fair lips. “It be not the length of the sword but the girth of the blade.”

“Do you mean to impale me upon it?”

“Many, many, many times — but mayhap not tonight. This story is already too long to demonstrate correct preparational techniques. But there are many other ways in which a man may give pleasure to another. Will ye let me show ye?”

“Oh yes! Yes!”

Our engorged shafts met in a perfect rhythm of virile passion, merging us in a torrent of sensual avidity so intense that it was unlike any coupling I had ever known. He may have been a virgin but he had hips like a Turkish belly dancer and our cries of ecstasy soon echoed in the stone walls of my bedchamber. It took all my carefully perfected skill and technique to delay my own release until Charles arched beneath me and reached his sublime peak of culmination, calling my name as he trembled in my arms. I then allowed myself to unleash my full vehemence upon him and shortly followed him into the heights of conjugal bliss.

As we lay entwined in the afterglow among the decorative pillows, our hearts beating as one, Charles looked at me with his mazarine orbs misty with emotion. “Oh Rehtt, that was so beautiful. I have truly become a man this night.”

“I have just begun to show ye the pleasures we can share,” I told him. “We shall have many nights together, Charles FitzNeale, if you desire it.”

“I do. I shall write to my father and tell him that I have chosen to stay with you. He has already been paid his money by my intended, so it shall matter to him but little, I think.”

“Aye, that may be, but your family is still in league with my enemy. It may come to pass that the clans will meet on the battlefield, and I may be forced to fight your kin as well.”

“I shall worry about that in the sequel,” Charles said. “Right now all I know is that I belong with you, Rehtt McLerflan.”

“Aye, my beloved Charles FitzNeale. I shall ne’er let ye go. Ye be my conquered prize, my most treasured possession, while yet retaining full agency and equal status to my own.”

And that is the tale of how I, Laird Rehtt McLerflan of the Clan McLerflan, won the greatest prize any warrior has ever gained. I hope this finely crafted erotic literature has enriched the sensual quality of your life in many ways. May it continue to bring you as much pleasure as it brings me each time I reread the copy I taped to the wall in the staff conference room.

_~The End~_


End file.
